The Science of Osculation (or 7 kinds of kisses and what they mean)
by Emma Lynch
Summary: So, over on Tumblr, Sherlolly29 drew a lovely picture of Sherlock kissing Molly's hand and requested that someone write a fic about that. So, here it is, but Sherlock being Sherlock couldn't merely contemplate one kind of kissing, he had to launch an investigation into them all, since he is conducting a social experiment. It's for science! Except of course it isn't-its for love.
1. Chapter 1

**"Make me immortal with a kiss." (Christopher Marlowe)**

 **For Sherlolly29**

* * *

Rain lashes down in sheets, drumming across car roofs, making black, hammered glass of the tarmac outside the warehouse. Orange, white, blue lights revolve through the relentless wet, making mockery of turned up collars and sodden police boots. Radios crackle across the night in multitudinous directions, distorted by the hissing and hammering of water, and the dull _thud-thud_ of over-worked windscreen wipers.

"Get him in the back - _quickly_ \- if you don't mind, Anderson! One more minute of _piss-wet through_ is one minute too bloody many!"

Gregory Lestrade stands beneath a billowing piece of nylon that had once been an anorak, his eyelashes separated by the soaking he was getting after six hours in pursuit on this vile stormy night in October; fists clenched, gripped uselessly around his woeful shelter.

But it was good. William Gould was rather peevishly shoved through mud, gravel and hissing rain by a rat-faced forensic assistant (obviously well past his bedtime) towards the flashing lights of the police car that would be taking him into custody, where he could perhaps explain why three of his siblings had lost their lives by way of (until recently) utterly unconnected illnesses.

Ducking out from a dimly-lit doorway, attended by a damp and disgruntled (but apparently receptive) Sally Donovan comes Sherlock Holmes, his large, pale hands sketching out some rudimentary explanation for his bringing us here, in a way he felt she might comprehend it. I frown at him through the deluge, gratified to catch his bright eyes and pale face ( _orange, white, blue_ ) at that very moment. His hair is flattened, black and glossy to his head and his coat hangs heavy, weighed down with the barrage the night had given us, but he quirks the smallest of smiles, understanding _my_ understanding of _him_.

We have known each other quite a long time, he and I.

Sherlock abandons his condescension of the good sergeant, loping over rippling puddles in three long strides before he is by my side.

"A bit not good, I suppose?" He smiles damply, buoyant and breathless from the night's proceedings, and the genius that brought us here after months of research and shockingly accurate deductive reasoning. Light and moisture bounce from the planes of his extraordinary face and I am once again left awestruck by his artistry, but I just grin a bit, shaking my head.

"Be nice to Sally," I say, "she's sharper than you think."

"She will thank me when the report has to be written up, John."

I am about to respond when a scuffle breaks out ahead, just at the door of the warehouse, and Sally is pushed to one side by a distraught, bedraggled woman making for Mr Gould, just as Anderson is protecting his head into the paddy waggon. I am instantly taut, ready to act ( _battle stations?_ ) but Sherlock touches my arm.

"His wife," he says.

We both watch Mrs Gould - filthy, shocked beyond words and soaked to the skin - fling her arms around her husband who can barely respond thanks to cuffed hands and an irritated Anderson. Reaching up through sobbing breaths, she takes his blank, defeated face into her two hands and kisses him calmly upon his cheek, before letting go and allowing herself be pulled aside by a female constable. She then nods, turns and lets herself be led away whilst her husband ( _thief, liar, murderer_ ) watches her briefly before disappearing finally behind a slammed car door.

"Extraordinary."

I turn to see Sherlock Holmes watching the glow of the red brake lights as his killer bumps along the rutted road to almost certain incarceration.

"What? The wife?"

"No, the kiss."

I look at him more keenly. His eyes are narrowed against the rain, and possible unwelcome thoughts.

"Sherlock, she was just kissing him goodbye."

"No... I think there was a little more to it than that," he breathes as we both watch glowing red lights fade into the nothingness of the night.

 **~x~**

Science is nothing but a series of observations corralled into a significant arrangement that either proves or disproves a theory, which is why I hold it in the very highest regard. Unlike most of my acquaintance, Science has never disappointed me, only provided a very distinct _yes or no_ answer within the branch diagram of diagnostics, allowing further progression in the correct direction and towards the correct destination. With it, there are no irritatingly hesitant prevarications or vacillations ( _just ring the doorbell and have done with it!_ ); no tearful handwringing where lovers have proven unreliable, no vengeful acts of violence when a promise has been reneged upon. If the general populace determined their life-changing decisions via a more scientific methodology rather than a hysterical, hit-or-miss, _eeny-meeny-miny-mo_ modus operandi, the world would benefit (although I fear my own gainful employment would be significantly compromised).

Thus, I have begun a new investigation which, for reasons of my own, must initially remain a private one. Beginning with fastidious observation and leading to collation of the most applicable data, I shall determine upon a greater understanding of the random flow of humanity that cross my path each day in the line of my work. Once I fully comprehend the prompts behind certain habits and social mores of my fellow man through scientific investigation, I shall be more able to fit facts to suit theories rather than theories to suit facts.

The stage is set, so let us begin.

 **~x~**

Mary Watson juggles son, backpack, handbag, cake box and a book entitled _Where the Wild Things Are,_ barely having a moment to consider how she would attempt to knock on the large, black door before it is wrenched open so suddenly, a waft of displaced air slightly lifts the blonde curls from her forehead.

"Mary, if two farmers are arguing over a large barrel partly filled with cider, one proclaiming it more than half full and the other insisting it be less that half empty, how could the issue be solved without use of conventional measuring tools?"

She stands as Sholto pulls at the cake box, kicking the _Wild Things_ with his pummelling feet and nods her head, remaining calm.

"Tilt it until it's just about to pour out. If it`s exactly half full, the cider should just cover all of the rim…"

He is smirking, arms folded across the mouse-coloured dressing gown and feet bare.

"Good, and…?"

Mary staggers a little, but strengthens her stance in defiance. Sholto has her shoulder bag between his teeth/gums.

"...and...that way, half the barrel is full of cider and the other half is air space…"

"And?"

"And, if the cider just covers the bottom rim, the barrel is more than half full…and if the bottom isn't fully covered, the barrel is less than half full. And, Sherlock…"

He waits.

"If you don't let me in and give me a hand with all … _this_ … you are going to find meringue in your test tubes for the next week!"

Sherlock opens the door.

 **~x~**

"My darling boy, come here and kiss me!"

Chubby arms reach up, toothless gums revealed in an infant smile as my landlady embraces Sholto Watson, kissing him noisily and moistly on the cheek (both), lips and nose, punctuating each with a vibrating and faintly disgusting sound which serves the dual purpose of repelling myself and amusing him beyond measure. Irrational madness.

"Now look at that! What a happy boy he is. No crying today is there?" More wet kisses. A glance across at the kitchen clock also indicates that unless the milk in the backpack Mary has left on the table is administered swiftly, Mrs Hudson will be proved wrong (yet again) in her summation. I stand, not wishing to be party to any more damage to my hearing than is absolutely necessary and bid my farewells.

"Lots to do, Sherlock?" Mary looks in blue-eyed innocence from beneath thick lashes and I know she is teasing, but she doesn't know about my latest project - no one does. I smile to myself, walking up the stairs. It seems that length and intensity are useful variables to be considered. Application and positioning were the main considerations, but the whole process appears more complex than first considered.

Fascinating.

 **~x~**

For useful data I must cast my mind back to the halcyon days of ` _Three-Continents-Watson'_ and all that entailed (irritating at best, distracting at worst). Firstly, Sarah, sharer of Mrs Hudson's welcome platter and a near death experience in a wet tunnel near the Embankment. Affection, support, complicity - John showed little in the way of physical attraction, as illustrated by the kiss upon the cheek. Only later (after aforementioned unfortunate happenings) was there stronger affection and a degree of atonement with a kiss of relief and an embrace to show surrender. Such a shame that didn't work out, but the lack of significant endearing glances indicated affection could not be confused with survival. And what about Janette (Jeanette?), teacher, dog-owner and Christmas party guest. A kiss upon the lips, but (as I recall) without intensity, implying little passion and a gesture more pertaining to friendship (or not, as it turned out). I recall regretfully stumbling into a sitting room transformed by semi-darkness, misleading candlelight and muted jazz (appalling) to discover a sprawl of limbs and clothes in slight disarray. Removing his lips from the girl's collarbone ( _Helen? I want to say Harriet…_ ) John indicated much with his words (and carelessly launched shoe in my direction) but more with that kiss - intimate, with an erotic intention which might or might not be realised. In this case, it was _not._

Adding these recollections to my database, I determine upon the idea that John Watson (although fruitful in his endeavours) could only be a baseline, and not my sole source of input. Cases were currently a little latent (hence the study itself) therefore I considered my options in finding more test subjects.

"Sherlock!"

Mrs Hudson's dulcet tones issue _Corncrake-like_ from the stairwell, and I knew I should not be visiting Mr Chattergee's shop in the near future, regardless of how small my test group might potentially be; there are certain things I should not wish to observe, even in the name of science.

"Sherlock, can you not answer?" She is puffing heartily as she enters, leaning into the door frame. "I always think you haven't heard me."

I smile, closing the laptop, the word ` _unlikely'_ remaining unsaid yet hanging in the air.

"John texted - says he's tried getting in touch but you aren't answering your phone." Her eyes are wide at such unparalleled lack of communication from a man who texts with two thumbs, in the dark, without looking, and I feel a pang, a twinge of guilt. Not useful.

"Apologies," I gesture to the closed laptop. "An important investigation."

"I`m sure dear." Her folded arms and smudge of garam flour across her cuff and cheek indicates annoyance that is a little more than deserved, so I stand, appearing … _helpful._

"What is it?" I ask.

"Molly's birthday party," she turns on her heel, message delivered and places to be. " _Be there_. Exact words, Sherlock." As her words fade down the stairs I smile, striding into my room to change; never before has a social event brought anything near to this degree of anticipation and excitement.

My test group has just multiplied exponentially.

 **~x~**

* * *

 **A/N: Osculation? Along with snog, smooch, peck, canoodle, neck, pet - another word for kissing!**

 **Oh dear me, what is going to happen at that party?**

 **Lovely to be back everyone. x**

 **Beautiful cover art by Allegator**


	2. Chapter 2

**"Kiss me, and you will know how important I am." (Sylvia Path)**

* * *

"Hi! Hello! Oh, how lovely to see you! Thanks so much for coming by…"

God, it`s been my birthday for around eighteen hours but I already feel fraudulent in welcoming my guests.

"Hi! Oh my goodness, Joanne, you look fantastic! How many hours in labour? That is … immoral...I mean, that is just amazing! Drinks are over by the fridge. Help yourselves everyone…"

Yes, I am one year older and that's … good, I suppose, but I do wonder if the hostess thing is for me…

"Oh, yes, just put your coats in the cupboard...yes, I know… full of microscope slides and… stuff… but you could still manage to… yeah, just chuck in in there."

If people just expected a little less and smiled a little more, I would have more parties than I do. Mary Watson seemed to think a get together was the right thing to do, but -

"Ha, yes… it is small, but it's fine for just me … no, the WIFI isn't so good... try standing with one foot on the bottom stair..."

I see Mary (of course) mixing the punch and rumours over by the cooker, but I don't begrudge her. John loves her (and I love John) so she is OK in this jurisdiction, and I suppose a little bit of... _mingling_ never hurt anyone. So… I am meeting and I am greeting. The candles flicker prettily and _21 Pilots`_ new album bounces out discreetly from the speakers, causing quite the pleasant interflow between thrumming of melody and clamour of voices.

" _Molly, looking beaut tonight, pet lamb."_

" _Come 'ere birthday girl and let me hug you!"_

" _Darling! Lovely to see you - what fabulously eclectic decor!"_

" _Ah, you're all skin and bones Molly! Get some pies down you for God's sake!"_

And I meet and I greet with a smile plastered firmly, for all to see.

 **~x~**

Ah, this is a veritable cornucopia of delectable observations, rich with the pulsing flow of social niceties that winds its way through the inauspicious setting of Molly Hooper's North London flat _(poor joinery and lack-lustre tiling coupled with a blossoming gambling habit indicates a less than responsible landlord and an impending rise in rent for Dr Hooper. Must mention_ ). People ( _so many people!_ ) arrive in clumps of twos or threes or even singletons, ringing and entering and embracing the hostess in a multitude of ways worthy of both observing and cataloguing.

A kiss on the cheek (older women: colleagues rather than relatives, not close, but friendly) illustrating affection ( _"happy birthday Molly, dear!_ "), support and a little complicity ( _whispering regarding recipe for dip?)._ A kiss and embrace (closer friends: same age, work in medicine, most likely college friends - known her a long time) showing stronger affection ( _"lush lipstick Molls_!") and a degree of trust and surrender. All women guests (and one man) holds embrace slightly longer than others - friendship? Male hugger appears to gaze for slightly longer than societal niceties dicate ( _aspirations for more? Sexual interest? More data needed._ ) A kiss and (more subtly) an expression of endearment - affection? ( _Mixture of guests - varied ages, relatives and work colleagues/friends from college - even school on one occasion_ ). The kiss that accompanies this looks appears to vary in location, usually inhabiting the cheek or the lips (lightly, a mere brush of contact) but the eyes, the smile and the accompanying hand corroborates the important deduction arising from this greeting:

Molly Hooper is held in high regard by many. She is clearly… _loved._

"You're up to something."

Mary Watson (again) appears at an inopportune moment with a faintly annoying caste to her eye. Instead of baby, she juggles now with a ruby coloured drink (rum-based and sugary) and a plate of dates wrapped in bacon. Inexplicable.

"Pig in a blanket?" she supplies, proffering the plate to me and laughing at what presumably must be my resultant expression.

"You came through the bathroom window, didn't you? God, Sherlock, just use the front door like a normal person - " She looks at me, lowering the plate and garnering her thoughts. I wait. "- then, why would you?" Mary smiles.

"Sometimes I wish to see - "

"And not to _be_ seen?" she supplies, with an atrocious wink as punctuation. " _Gotcha_. I'm off now - people need their dubious pork products, but Sherlock…" Indigo eyes twinkle irritatingly. "We are _on to you_." And she leaves, grinning.

 **~x~**

" _The meaning of kissing_?" I'm a bit flamboyant in my phraseology, but you can blame that on my wife's rum punch and the man who sits before me, stiff and unyielding in his demeanour, jacket and general lack of party insouciance. "You are researching how people kiss _in order to_ …?"

"Define their aspirations and predict their intentions. Human nature, John, has the simplest yet almost the most complex plethora of idiosyncrasies. People react more with their bodies, their mouths in particular, than any words either spoken or written. An emotion experienced is displayed in its full glory via the touch of fingers, hands and (most particularly) the lips. The length, the positioning, the intensity and accompanying embrace tell more than a thousand words. Mrs Gould (should you recall the case) kissed her husband with the strangest lack of passion and intensity. It was, I believe, a kiss of support and complicity before all else. She was promising, in that small contact, to stand by him, whatever the future would hold."

Sherlock Holmes, my most incredible and bizarre friend, turns and holds my stare, sitting alongside me in Molly Hooper's pink and green bathroom with its wide open window. and passes me a cigarette. It appears to be artisan in it's design (slightly bulging in its mid-section) and I take it, inhaling as preparation as to what I might be hearing.

"If ... you've been using _me_ in your research…?" I take a drag, dizziness enveloping me.

"How many stories featuring _me_ now populate _your_ Blog?"

I acknowledge, through smoke and a swimming head, that he may have a point, and return the cigarette, choking slightly. Sherlock watches me with the ghost of a smile.

"Currently, " he continues, "research shows that positioning of a kiss is less relevant than intensity of purpose and additional physical contact. Most people kiss, and they kiss for a variety of reasons; to show friendship, support, intimacy, passion, admiration or surrender. If, during cases, I can recognise the variants of such kisses in the behaviours of those who cross my path professionally, I might save myself some considerable time."

I lean back against a shelf stacked with fluffy towels and offer the cigarette back to him, closing my eyes in cushioned comfort.

"What about," I interject, "those who cross your path on a … _personal level?_ " And I open them again to catch his quizzical look, the crease deepening between his brows.

"I don't- "

"Will you be deducing your mother's greeting? Mrs Hudson's? Myself and Mary? God help us, maybe even Anderson and Donovan as they seem to be indulging in some deeply unwatchable tonsil hockey over by Molly's bins as we speak-"

I almost laugh out loud at his subsequently appalled features, but then another thought strikes me through the haze of smoke we are doing little to waft out of the window.

"And what of Molly herself, Sherlock? You've always been more than intrigued by her choice of boyfriend. Should she be expecting daily deductions regarding his intentions towards her based on your observations?"

I haven't smoked for years and rather think it's gone straight to my head. Sherlock doesn't appear able to reply, and I sense those huge, grinding brain cogs to be turning, revolving and clicking into place.

"Sherlock, does that poor girl even know you're here? Coming in through the window, lurking in darkened corners, making sweeping statements regarding her guest's methods of greeting …"

I hold the cup we are using as an ashtray out just in time to catch the ash that crumbles from the end of his forgotten cigarette as it dangles from long fingers. He suddenly stands, eyes becoming focused and moves towards the window.

"I have to go," he says.

 **~x~**

* * *

 **a/n: thank you for the follows, favourites and reviews - I love them, and I love you! ;)**


	3. Chapter 3

**"You got to not talk dirty, baby**  
 **If you want to impress me**  
 **You can't be too flirty, mama**  
 **I know how to undress me, yeah**  
 **I want to be your fantasy**  
 **Maybe you could be mine..." (KISS, by Prince)**

* * *

"More detail, if you please."

"Regarding Mr Musgrave's unusually intellectual cleaning lady?"

"No, the other thing; the Privy Council induction thing."

Mycroft Holmes observes his brother quite beadily as the latter makes a show of cleaning his nail using the tip of his letter knife with a casual affectation. Realising his little brother to be showing less than his usual degree of bored indifference, he determines that more data must be softly and gently elicited.

"How nice, Sherlock, that you take such an interest in the Royal prerogative and judicial committee of your own Sovereign; perhaps an acceptance of the Knighthood this year?" Mycroft raises a polite yet clearly mocking eyebrow to further test the waters. It simply would not do to allow Sherlock to notice his genuine curiosity.

"Perhaps not, Mycroft." Sherlock lays down the knife and immediately falls into his armchair, tapping out a repetitive arpeggio on it's leather clad arm. A few moments more, considers Mycroft Holmes, and he himself should be able to identify the piece successfully. How tense and preoccupied. How delightful.

"So," encourages Mycroft, "would it be the ceremony I attended today you wish to know more about? Surely you must have some knowledge of the induction of new Privy Councillors - the bowing and scraping, the obsequious forelock-tugging you profess to despise…"

Sherlock squints up at his brother, drumming fingers pausing in their rhythm and knows he must tread carefully; Mycroft always knows far too much.

"I am undertaking a ... small study at present, involving a sociological investigation…I am interested to know how one presents to Her Majesty at such an event… the kneeling etc…"

He sits back, affecting indifference, but exhibiting a tightly-coiled impatience which serves to amuse Mycroft no end. _Softly. Gently_.

Mycroft expounds:

"One approaches Her Majesty, then kneels before her on the footstool provided. The Queen will then proffer her right hand, palm down and fingers lightly closed. The inductee will then extend his own right hand, with palm upwards - I do hope you are following, little brother?"

Sherlock huffs an unconvincing disinterest as his brother continues.

"Then, he will take Her Majesty's hand lightly, lift it and bestow, Sherlock, the merest _touch of the lips_. Anymore than this would be deemed most impertinent and inopportune."

Sherlock nods slowly, his fingers steepled, but a glint inhabiting a corner of his pale eyes.

"Devotion. Loyalty," he notes, quietly and Mycroft nods in agreement.

"Indeed."

There is a short pause as Sherlock isolates and files his thoughts in the depths of his Mind Palace and his brother watches him for a moment before picking up his gloves and umbrella.

"Do see yourself out Mycroft. It should be pointless calling on Mrs Hudson since her shortbread slices apparently lacked 'sufficient shortening` and had to be consigned to the bin - "

Mycroft smiles without a shred of sincerity as he steps towards the door.

" - and Mr Musgrave should check his family tree; I suspect his cleaner to be rather more qualified than he realises and to have a more than legitimate claim on the family inheritance."

Mycroft sighs. This is not unexpected news.

"Your insight is appreciated Sherlock."

"As is ... _yours_."

And Mycroft takes the staircase with a distinct sense of … _intrigue_ , as well as the sense that his little brother still had the ability to surprise him.

 **~x~**

So I got it. Yay me!

I suppose there were only three candidates and one of them is a total idiot and a stranger to paperwork, but I should also point out that I aced the presentation on only two hours sleep (crazy landlord hammering into the night keeping the whole house awake) and a tube strike nearly stopping me from getting here. I should also point out that Mike Stamford hugged me and whispered "best man won, Molly" like the gorgeous myopic teddy bear that he is, and I am now on cloud nine and being ironically slap-dash about paperwork, since I am being interrupted every two minutes by folks coming into the lab to congratulate me.

"Eeeh, _Leading Forensic Pathologist Molly Hooper_!" Sarah Gnezere is half a foot taller and three times as strong as me, proved by her lifting me up and planting a smacking kiss on my forehead.

"Hey you, stop kissing the boss!" My other favourite APT Joanne rushes in (cakes for all - she is quite the asset and I make mental note to introduce _Cake Friday_ just as soon as I can) and hugs me tight, wafting Nina Ricci and genuine admiration my way in droves.

Less than twenty minutes later, the silverest of police foxes drifts in to offer his congratulations as he collects the lab results on several unfortunate people who trusted a taxi driver who...wasn't really a taxi driver.

"Molly Hooper - you dark horse! C'mere!" and large, wax-cottoned arms engulf me, pulling me in for a peck on the cheek, which redden with a sudden heat on seeing John Watson and Sherlock Holmes entering the lab on the heels of the inspector. Of course, it was one of Sherlock's cases too.

John bounds up, slightly less exuberant than Greg but just as genuine, hugging me swiftly with a light kiss across my cheekbone. "Star girl," he smiles. "We heard all about it, didn't we Sherlock?"

And we stand, Sherlock Holmes and myself, less than three feet apart and staring at each other in silence, and it is difficult to tell who looks more awkward. Surprisingly, he breaks the stare first, looking down at his freakishly large (beautiful) hands as if he'd only just discovered them and had no clue as to their purpose. A lock of dark hair falls across his pale forehead as I take in the lovely planes of his alien features and exquisitely crafted mouth… Oh the nights I have thought of that mouth and how I might want to still the unpunctuated, garrulous, unedited stream of consciousness that pours from it each time we meet…

But not this time, it would seem.

All eyes are now on Sherlock, apparently rooted to the spot and bizarrely mute as he looks up and around at his audience, realising an expectation was being had, and most likely deciphering which would be the least offensive method of -

 _Oh._

Sherlock's eyes suddenly catch my own and I find I can look nowhere else, and that everyone else in that room might as well have disappeared into the ether, or the nether realm, or whatever kids were calling it these days.

"Molly … "

"Sherlock."

Eyes so pale as to be mutable, turbulent, capricious… unforgettable. Eyes that were _unsure_?

Like a puppet, he jerks into action, stepping forward, reaching towards me and taking the hand that lies limp and redundant by my side and lifting it. Time is suspended, caught in a fragmented and unreliable dimension as I see my own hand brought up to that mouth and the huff of air that caresses my skin just before the sweep of lips; that softness, that yielding, that breach of a thousand barriers flits through my consciousness ... and then it is over.

"Congratulations," murmurs Sherlock Holmes, low, sonorant, looking up at me as he lowers my hand and I realise two things:

Never has a room had so little air in it.

Never has a fully-clothed (and recently promoted) pathologist felt so completely... naked.

 _Shit._

 **~x~**

* * *

 **a/n: Guest - thank you for dropping by and I hope you can stick around and see how things turn out! ;)**


	4. Chapter 4

**The sunlight clasps the earth, and the moonbeams kiss the sea,**

 **What are all these kisses worth, if thou kiss not me?" (P.B. Shelley)**

* * *

It could so easily have been a brief brush across the cheek (like John, like Lestrade, like any sensible, coherent human). A handshake would have been ridiculous - far too formal, since Molly Hooper is currently considered 'a friend' (sharing of occasionally interesting information, party invitations, gifting of occasional body parts and the like) - but a kiss on the hand…?

I talk rapidly and impenetrably about the taxi murders (victims linked, but there are three unlinked drivers; Lestrade is going to hate it) all the way home, firing questions at John and answering them myself, lest a pause or unbidden interim should afford him opportunity to question me. His eyes dance and his hands twitch, but he bides his time (the crook of his mouth to the left; the tapping of his right forefinger across his jacket pocket, where his phone is stored) since he is nothing if not patient with me and for this I am grateful. Truthfully, although my mouth and forebrain regurgitates theorems and questions on autopilot, my inner workings buzz with a frenzied frustration, like a fly, battening against a glass pane…

 _Why? Why did I kiss the hand of Molly Hooper?_

Studies ( _Gluckheim, Maestromberg and Fernyhough (2004, 2012, 2013_ ) all corroborate that a kiss on the hand to a monarch denotes devout loyalty, but to a friend, admiration ( _possible, especially in light of recent promotion_ ), trust ( _truly, she has proved her worth in matters of secrecy when I needed her most_ ), and a desire… _for love_. My own study has very little data to analyse this particular choice of greeting, and I would prefer to snap my Stradivarius in two and use it as kindling before asking Mycroft to elucidate further. The cab drops John off and I sit back in the welcoming silence of the back seat, both relieved and afeared to give the matter my full attention.

Later, lying across my bed, a cooling cup of tea ignored on the side table, I stretch fully clothed, staring at the ceiling as passing traffic throws varied and intricate beams across its whiteness in the deepening gloom of an inner city night. Music beats briefly, sporadically from inconsiderate vehicles as the evening deepens into night and gradually, sounds of the city lessen, quieten, becoming muffled and distant as London beds down for the night.

 _A desire for love?_

At the beginning of this study, I had only a desire for knowledge. For the science of humanity to step forward and help organise its helpless drones into some semblance of order I could comprehend and catalogue. I wished to understand and anticipate the wild and unpredictable reactions of my fellow man via the language of their greetings, their hidden meanings.

Regardless of physical attraction, a kiss on the cheek indicates affection, support, complicity; similarly, a kiss on the forehead would show the two to be friends. A kiss an accompanying look of endearment would show the recipient to be loved (a baby, a child, a friend, perhaps a lover). Moving on, a kiss and close embrace shows a stronger affection, almost a surrender, with potential for further sensual or sexual contact. A kiss on the lips? ( _I realise I am now touching my own mouth, exploring its edges, its dips and its swell_ ) This, done quickly, can show friendship, but with length and intensity implies passion - _I have a strong feeling for you; I love (or may love) you…_

I twist, almost savagely, towards the bedside table and a hateful digital display showing 3.48 am. But I am wide awake. More than. Kicking off my shoes and socks, I shift to my side, curled like an ammonite, feeling for coolness beneath a pillow filled with rocks. Kisses on ears, neck, collarbone all indicate an intimacy and possibly erotic intent to a certain degree and could also hint at an energy of mischief or play, but intensity here, I do believe, is just as important as positioning.

 _A desire for love._

Deep into the night and the Baker Street traffic is almost stilled to the occasional drift of a black cab or brave pedestrian. I close my eyes but my mind is whirring, shifting, visualising. A sweep of shining, copper hair that glints in the light of flickering candles and the downcast eyes of a person who is slightly uncomfortable; a skin too tight, an obligation too far, perhaps made in haste and now regretted. Smiles to a frequently opened doorway; embraces (small hands pushing back hair that escapes and floats free, sticking to unnecessary lipgloss), kisses and laughs, but the flicker of the eyes and the tremor of the thumb (so solid and strong with a scalpel) gives her away. Why does he hold her so long? (twice the duration of the woman before) his choice of kiss appears friendly but his shoes show affectation and the cut of his trousers indicate recent unemployment and a dubious reliance on computer gaming. Irritating. Unworthy. Aspirations of Molly Hooper becoming his romantic interest: intolerable. A wintery afternoon; an air of celebration, success, congratulatory greetings in the antiseptic gloom of the morgue. Smiles (genuine, grateful, proud this time), a show of teeth, a tilt of the chin and warmth to the eyes; _successful Molly Hooper_ , and I am unable to react, to interact successfully on either of these occasions. Party guests do not disappear via a window into a winter's night without greeting or thanks; friends and colleagues hug briefly, kiss lightly and smile rather than kiss a hand, like a chivalrous knight, like a vow of devotion, like a desire… for love.

It is breaking dawn before I sleep.

 **~x~**

Kneeling closer, bringing the lens to the edges of the bootprint, I see traces, smudges of moss and I almost drop my torch in my efforts to stand.

Where is John?

The air in the tunnel is mostly stagnant, but a slight breeze elicits sporadically from ventilation shafts dotted at eighteen metre intervals, and such a breeze carries a slightly acrid tang to the air, the whisper of gunsmoke, and I know which direction to take.

And I run.

"Sherlock?"

His voice is weak and pulse a little thready, but he knows who I am and my racing heart slows a little as I hear the muffled squeals of taxi driver number three (Victor Hatherley), currently being cuffed and cautioned amidst the filthy stinking mud of the King William Street tunnel.

"Flesh wound. Poor vision on his left side, coupled with shoes unsuited for this terrain meant his aim was erratic - "

His hand grasps my wrist and I am thrilled to see a smile breaking through the pain.

"You are supposed to tell me how I'm going to be OK and not to worry at this point."

Of course. My hand tightens on his shoulder as medics break through the police cordon and kneel beside us and he nods silently, since he does not need to hear my words to know my heart.

Lestrade makes rapid notes under hi-beam police lighting. I watch as John is helped up the steps and onto a stretcher. The slash to his arm by a deranged murderer should need less than ten stitches; he has been lucky and I can only imagine how he will phrase tonight's subterranean chase to his wife. I do not realise I have stopped responding to the inspector's (rather basic) questioning until he pauses, tapping me on my arm.

"I said, don't worry about John - "

"It's only a flesh wound." I bite out rapidly.

He blinks.

"Yeah, I know, but I meant with Mary. He might be in bother for putting himself in this kind of danger (again), but you know them - they'll soon kiss and make-up."

I must still be looking incomprehensive as he feels the need to elaborate further.

"Sherlock, you have managed to track down three men in the last four weeks who could have gone freely about their killing sprees for months, even years, without you doing … that stuff you do. You and John must have knackered yourselves with this investigation, and I know you are the brains, but he - he has to balance this with a… real life, a family, loved ones, so it's doubly difficult."

He stops, contemplates me further and then puts away his notebook and grasps me with uncharacteristic warmth (we are not huggers) by the shoulder.

"Look, you must be knackered, and worried about him (yes you bloody well are) so this (pats his pocket) can wait until tomorrow."

I open my mouth, but I see his teeth gleam dully in the shadows of the tunnel as he grins.

"Go home Sherlock. Get some sleep. You might not have to kiss and make up with anyone, but you're swaying on your feet. Go on, bugger off!"

So, my feet find the rungs, metallic _clang, clang, clang_ echoing along the belly of the tunnel and up the exit shaft into the fresh smog and pollution of an early London evening, and as I step out into the brightly lit entrance of Borough tube station, I analyse my own sociological dictates and I find them wanting.

I turn on my heel, and even though Baker Street is a five minute walk away, I hail a cab.

 **~x~**


	5. Chapter 5

**"The truth is, I always want to kiss you." (** **Alex Rosa)**

* * *

I`m pulling everything out of the drawers now, in a pointless frenzy of impatience. It's the very definition of insanity, since if the blue-tac wasn't there five minutes ago, it really wasn't going to have suddenly re-appeared in this drawer. But I look anyway and set myself up for a certain repetition of disappointment. Bloody tiles. Stupid landlord. He's always there for my rent, but never for running repairs, and he's been promising to replace the cracked and loose tiles around my bathroom window sill for at least a year.

I find an ancient stick of chewing gum and contemplate a running repair of my own. Then, suddenly tired and defeated, I sit down on the (closed) toilet seat and contemplate my current mood. Outwardly chirpy, focused, together. Running a department like I've done it all my life and a social life that's looking up for a change. Umpteen offers of drinks after work (including moderately dodgy sounding Burlesque night) and a potential blind date set up by Joanne (her brother's friend who works on the rigs but is home every two months - sounds ok to me). Also, babysitting for little Sholto Watson has proved fun, especially since Mary Watson always chats with me afterwards and has almost stopped teasing me about Sherlock.

Ah, there we go. Current mood suddenly swerves violently and without warning into another lane - _the Sherlock Holmes Highway_ , where junctions and dips and bumps in the road are are usually hidden, and trouble always seems larger in the rear view mirror. Since that day in the lab, almost a month ago now, I have been pretty fine; busy with new job and all that potential social scene stuff. Yep. And Sherlock himself, _kisser-of-hands_ and _inflamer-of-storms-beneath-my-skin_ , he has been running ragged around the city with that taxi case, not sleeping or eating or even playing a merry tune on his fiddle (according to Mary) until they are caught. He's been astonishingly good, though, since two of the killers have been apprehended thanks to him finding that doll's head and the severed thumb on the window sill. Judging by the number of times I've seen Greg this week, I reckon cabbie number three is pretty close to being banged to rights and… well, it's his thing isn't it? And he's pretty good at it. _So._

Me and Sherlock, we are as close to casual friendship as he can manage, and I've put that _courtly love_ moment right to the back of my mind. It was astonishing and lovely and no-one in the room could quite believe what they were seeing, but it was just one of those anomalies that happen to people every now and then and I'm damned if I'm going to read anything more into it. Some day soon, I'm probably going to stop thinking about it, seeing as I have more than enough impregnable analysis to sift through on a daily basis in my morgue.

So.

I go and put the kettle on, leaving the broken tile where it is.

 **~x~**

It's quite late when I hear the knock and I don't have a peephole (God, I'm lucky to have a knocker) so I'm reduced to a feeble "who is it?" as I have my hand on the handle, and nearly experience a case of sudden onset tachycardia when a low, deep, _unmistakable_ voice replies:

"It's me… it's Sherlock… Holmes."

Despite my wildly bouncing heart, I smile as I lean against the door.

"Glad you clarified which _Sherlock_ you are." I honestly could not help myself, and I hear slightly impatient shuffling about on the other side of the door.

"Molly Hooper, stop grinning, step away from the door and let me in immediately, if not sooner."

He sounds so tense and agitated, my smile falls away immediately as I know tonight was going to be important in the taxi driver case and I know John isn't with him ( _how did he know I was grinning?_ ), so I find my fingers fumbling with the catch, scrabbling with the handle.

Sherlock blots out the dim light in my hall as he sweeps in, all fluidity of swishing coat tails, long strides and flashing eyes. He literally takes my breath away and I close the door behind us, and he fills the room with a thrumming, dark energy.

"The case - ?"

"We got Hatherley in the tunnels. It was the same moss."

"Oh, fan-"

"John was hurt."

"No! Oh my -"

"Only a flesh wound. He's fine."

His face is tight, set, impregnable and this situation so unusual, all I can say is:

"You came through the door."

At that, the mask slips and his mouth relaxes slightly into a tiny quirk and it's as though all the air leaves his lungs, leaching away the tension.

"Yes, I did. I felt I was giving mixed messages regarding my behaviour towards you. One does not enter a lady's home through a window if one greets her with a kiss to her hand."

Tachycardia has returned, to the power of a million.

"I.. I wasn't too confused about it really."

"No?"

I find we are standing quite close in my tiny hall. He smells faintly of lemon verbena, tobacco and the chill of the night. Cool air rises from him as to be almost visible and his eyes glitter in the dimness, but I don't move away, because I don't want to.

"No," I say, meeting unblinking eyes with my own. "You are yourself and I don't quantify you by a predetermined set of socially acceptable behaviours. I see _you_ Sherlock, and you're fine, you really really _are_."

His eyes widen slightly, and the dark ink of his pupils bloom wide to fill the iris.

"Oh," he says. "I see."

"Good," I say, "because I don't want there to be any … _mixed messages_."

He breaks my stare then, frowning slightly, looking down at the dark space between us and at the pale glow of our hands.

"Messages," he says, "can be so very mixed. Social niceties and customs can be difficult ( _looking up_ ) - I have made some significant observations, but outcomes have proved… _erratic_."

"There are no mixed messages, Sherlock. You see everyone, but remember, they see you too. You kissed my hand because you wanted to."

He looks then, and he smiles and I think my heart may never recover, because it is so genuine and so beautiful.

"Yes. Yes I did." He looks down and the dry warmth of his hand covers mine, like a lifeline, an anchor, a mainstay. "I still do."

He lifts it, holding it clasped between his long, musician's fingers and bringing it up to his mouth so that when he speaks, I feel the shape of his words.

"I have recently found myself, during aforementioned observations, with a residual yearning. People imagine I delight so in solitude, that I seek it out continuously - " his kiss across my hand is as light as a whisper " - I don't." He lowers my hand again, dipping his dark head down and kissing lightly across my brow, my cheek.

"I give you my affinity, my support, my complicity and my friendship."

Then, Sherlock kisses me (so lightly) across my mouth and I can hardly believe his mouth has been there, so I stupidly touch it, as if in need of proof.

"I give you also an implication of passion - " gently he removes my fingers and kisses my mouth again, this time with a growing intensity, a warmth that coils from within and spreads.

"I give you intimacy - " his wonderful mouth touches my clavicle, the lobe of my ear and hovers, achingly above my carotid, making it leap and pound with longing - "and seduction, should you want it - " his tone is low, soft but playful, since I am telegraphing my _want_ with everything I own, and he - well, he _is_ Sherlock Holmes.

"I offer my strong and deep affection, my admiration and my desire… for you."

And Sherlock takes my shoulders between his strong hands, pulling slightly away ( _no - I only want to be closer_ ) and he looks at me, kisses me, then looks again, and the gift of himself shines from his eyes as brightly as a supernova imploding into the ether, the nether realm, and I kiss him right back, breathing my reply into his mouth.

And there are to be no mixed messages any more.

 **~x~**

 **Epilogue**

I sit looking at a slightly unfamiliar clock in a slightly unfamiliar sitting room and smile a little to myself as the key turns in the lock and the homeowners return. I have been waiting, since I know they'll most likely want a word or two with me.

Mary Watson had been desperately late before rushing off to meet her husband, so had only time to throw a list of instructions and contact numbers at her number one babysitter and slam out of the door. Now, however, the Watsons have returned and I know Mary's curiosity can only be contained for so long. As for John - well, he is ultimately more than used to the _long game_.

Mary still has her coat on as she slides in besides me, affecting a casual nonchalance, but two large glasses of Pinot Grigio making her a little less successful than usual.

"So?" she whispers as John enters, smiling but silent and pulling a pen and paper out of the drawer.

"You don't mind if I make a few notes for the Blog?" he deadpans as I gaze at them both in wide eyed innocence.

"I don't," I begin, "have a clue as to what you two are referring."

Instantly, Mary turns to her husband. " _Clues_? See John, she's already in deep!" Turning back: "Molly, I swear, I`ve waited impatiently for two sodding weeks and _I know_!"

"I know too," adds John.

"Then you hardly need to hear anything from me," I smirk, folding my arms and enjoying myself a fair bit (truth be told).

Dramatically, Mary throws herself onto my lap, looking up at me with her huge, speedwell eyes, making her lip tremble in mock disappointment. At times like this, it is almost possible to forget her previous line of work.

"Unfair, Molly Hooper. I want one tiny bit of information from you and you clam up like a steel trap. What happened to the sisterhood? Quid pro quo? Scandalous gossiping?"

I relent a little, since I have a little bubble of joy inside me that has been buoying me up like a cork in a wild, dark sea (and her head is actually getting quite heavy…).

"What is it you want to know? Make it a good question, because it will be your only one."

Her eyes glitter with anticipation (and a tinge of respect) as she sits up straight, facing me just as John interjects:

"She wants to know if you and Sherlock are … _together_."

"...and if he's a good kisser? _Is he_ a good kisser, Molly?"

I shake my head, a smarty-pants smile plastered across my face.

"I'm only going to answer one of those questions, as agreed, and the answer to that one is … _yes_."

"Argh! To which? Which one?"

I stand, picking up my coat and bag and retrieving the phone that had been vibrating to check the message.

' _Bathroom window sill fully re-tiled at my expense. Apologies for the inconvenience. I feel the front door to be much more inviting these days. Until tonight._

 _SH_

 _X'_

Grinning like an idiot, I touch the tiny _X_ before closing the phone and starting towards the door.

"I never kiss and tell," I smile.

 **THE END**

* * *

 **a/n: Well, there we are. Sherlock's subconscious clearly realised what his heart wanted long before he did. He might enjoy the cool, calm logic of analytical observation and deduction, but there was a 'hole in {his} soul'* which could only be filled by Molly. Isn't it obvious? ;)**

 ***lyrics from Flaws by Bastille**

 **Carrie: You are so right about the tube station! I wanted to use those tunnels and they come up just beside Borough Tube which (I knew) was NOT five minutes away from Baker Street. Poetic license (aka cheating) may have been employed here. ;) Apologies. Thank you for your lovely review also.**


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